Of Easy Words and Faithful Friends
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Blood Ties, #2. *Oliver and Felicity find solutions to their problems.* "Of Violent Delights and Violent Ends" continued, this time with a scent, a taste, and a couple of propositions. Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon. Prompt: taste. Complete.


**Title: Of Easy Words and Faithful Friends  
Word Count: 3845**

 **Notes:** This universe always seems to be difficult for me. I've spent all week trying to crank this out, and I always just fall short. I don't know how I feel about this one. I wanted to go in another direction, but the characters had their own ideas. I only hope it lived up to expectations.

Special thanks to geniewithwifi, who suggested a thing on the last Blood Ties installment. ;)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. If you feel so moved, thank you for reviewing. If you don't, thank you for taking the time to read it. :)

* * *

The impact of dismounting the motorcycle jars Oliver's newly injured ankle, causing him to wince as pain shoots up his leg. Maybe he should have taken it easy, instead of rushing into the next fight just two days after Bloodlust burned down. He had felt better than ever after Felicity healed him, but now he sees a complication he hadn't before: it makes him reckless.

He frowns as he gathers his bow, knowing he took stupid risks tonight. A sudden surge of vivacity made him careless. If Felicity ever heals him again, he'll have to compensate for that potentially deadly side-effect. He grips the bow tight, sighing. He should know better; he's survived five years and endured the worst, but a little extra energy makes him forget how to stay safe.

The leather sticks to his hand in the glove, held in place by the tacky feeling of half-dried blood. Again he examines the wound at his wrist. Bleeding, but manageable; there's no question the wound will heal on its own. The gunshot wound in his shoulder is another matter, but at least it was a through-and-through, even if it burns every time he breathes.

Oliver shakes his head as he makes a few steps toward the clock tower he calls a base. It would be one thing if he had made any progress tonight, but instead his injuries are for nothing. Still no news on who ordered the attack on Felicity's nightclub. He's threatened most members of the more radical anti-vampire groups, but, even terrified of him and begging for mercy, none of them talked. The implications of that are more troubling than the thought of someone trying to murder a few hundred innocent vampires with holy fire.

There's a new player in town.

Footsteps break through his train of thought, and Oliver whirls immediately, nocking his bow in a smooth motion. He squints against the darkness for any sign of motion, waiting. He knows this block of town is abandoned, and he also can't afford to have someone follow him back to base.

" _Et tu_ , Oliver?" a voice calls in the night, and he relaxes instantly. He'd recognize that voice anywhere, soft with just a whisper of gravel at the edges. Even more unique is her accent, a lyrical lilt that belongs in not just another place, but another time. For not the first time, he wonders if anyone else alive can speak her dialect. "First men take torches to my business," she continues, "and now I find myself at the business end of your bow. I'm starting to feel unwelcome in Starling City."

As he slides the arrow back into his quiver, she comes into view. To the casual observer, she seems as human as him. No one would recognize Felicity Smoak as the vampire Oliver knows her to be. Her elongated canine teeth seem to fit comfortably in her mouth, not poking out like some he's seen over the years. Her eyes aren't red, either, though he's seen them turn crimson when she's feeding—or when she had her tongue down his throat two nights ago. Her skin isn't sickly pale, nor does her hair look thin with age pulled up into that bun. To the outside world, she's just another passerby on the street.

Oliver knows better.

"You were out of my range of vision," is his reply. "I didn't mean to upset you after the week you've had." Nearly burning to death by holy fire isn't something he'd wish on anyone, especially not someone like Felicity. Another thought dawns on him a moment later. "How did you know where to find me?" He hasn't had the opportunity to tell her the location of his base, and somehow he knows it isn't coincidence that she turned up here.

Felicity rolls her eyes as she walks up to him, absently brushing a speck of dust off dark, fitted slacks that somehow make her legs look longer. Oliver suddenly wants to have them wrapped around his waist again. "I'm a witch, Oliver," she answers dryly. "All I need is a drop of blood to track someone." She smiles, exposing white, razor-sharp teeth behind her deep red lips. "I have a pint of yours in my veins at the moment." She dismisses it with a wave of red fingernails. "I hope you'll forgive my intrusion, but I've been investigating the arson at my club. I thought I might share my findings with you."

Yet again she throws him; he hasn't spoken to her since the morning after their… _heated_ encounter, when he went with her to assess the damage to the club. He hadn't mentioned looking into the fire to her, but he knew from the moment they saw the charred pile of ash that was once a vampire. She left abruptly after that with a hand over her mouth, and he understood all the things she couldn't say. But it was one thought, more than the others, that convinced him to start searching for the arsonist: it could have been her.

Somehow Oliver thinks the world would be a little darker without Felicity Smoak.

"How…" he manages to start, but the way her lips twist up in a smile makes him stop. "How did you know I was going to…?" No, that isn't the right question. " _Did_ you know I was going to be…?" That isn't the right question, either; of course she couldn't have known. They barely met that night. They haven't even exchanged phone numbers. "What…?" The question dies on his tongue; he finds no words can help him here.

Felicity laughs, a light, airy sound that makes her eyes brighten, even in the dark. "Usually _I'm_ the one speaking in fragmented sentences," she remarks in a playful tone, adjusting her glasses. Sweeping back her peacoat, she slips her hands into the pockets of her pants. "When I read that the Arrow was busying himself with the anti-vamp sects, I could only assume you were interested in what happened to my club." She frowns down at his injuries. "And perhaps I could help you, if you would permit me."

Oliver motions to the door behind him, locked with a keycode. "We'll talk inside." Squinting against the harsh security light, he enters the code. When the door beeps open, scurrying footsteps on the stairs follow. He sighs. As much as allowing her into this part of his life keeps her out of trouble, Thea also has a tendency to _make_ trouble for him.

"Your sister?" Felicity asks. Oliver's eyes snap to hers, and she lifts a shoulder. "Remember how I said your aroma is unique?" She taps her nose with a wink. "Scents run in families. Miss Queen shares some similar characteristics with you." Her head tilts to the side. "You said something about her interest in narcotics. I'm guessing she selects those because no vampires have ever displayed interest in feeding from her. Nor have you ever been bitten by a vampire. Other than me, I mean."

His brow furrows as he demands, "How did you know that?"

Smiling, she replies, "You two have a strong aroma. Thick with strong spices and cinnamon. It translates into a strong taste to your blood." She twists one of the large, diamond studs in her ear. For the first time, he notices the industrial piercing through the top of it—a touch of modern taste in an otherwise timeless look. It makes him smile; how delightfully Felicity. "I would wager that you and your sister are a tad too strong for most vampires."

Taking a step forward, Oliver offers her a playful grin as he looks down at her. "So my blood tastes bad."

"Not at all," she replies with a smile, almost predatory in some ways. "Your taste is _strong_ , Oliver, but not unpleasant." Felicity taps his chin with an index finger. "It isn't for the faint of heart, but those who can handle it would appreciate the flavor." Her hand falls to his chest. "And I would be more than pleased to get another taste of you."

At first he thinks the innuendo is accidental, but then her eyes flash violet. Apparently not enough lust to transition to red, but more than should be present in an innocent statement. It causes Oliver to take a few steps back; the temptation to finish what he started two nights ago is too great.

The first moment he knew Felicity Smoak, he was intrigued. When he realized she was attracted to him, he was interested. But the moment he intended to take her to bed, he realized what a disservice that would be. Felicity is entirely other, a mix of tradition and innovation. She hides away pain and torment under a smile. Her every word is subtle and mysterious. When humans lash out against what she is, she only greets them with understanding and kindness. While it's clear she isn't looking for anything serious and he isn't in a place to commit to anyone, he'd lose parts of her in a casual relationship.

And Oliver wants to _know_ her.

His voice comes out an octave too low and as full of gravel as the path beneath his feet. "Do I need to invite you in?" he asks in challenge, swinging the door open for her.

It does the trick: Felicity's eyes turn blue again and she laughs. The plan quickly falls apart when she leans close to whisper, "Myth." Her mouth wraps around the word like a caress, and he suddenly wants to remember again how those lips feel upon his. It takes everything within him not to try.

Instead of initiating anything, she breezes past him, shoulder brushing against his jacket. Only when she reaches the threshold does she turn around to add, "I go where I choose and do as I please, Oliver."

He follows her down the stairs and into the basement, watching as she somehow navigates the grated staircase in burgundy stilettos. Once they reach the bottom of the staircase, she turns to examine the space. Thea watches from behind the computer, pretending to look as though she's been there all along, eyes locking onto Felicity for a moment before throwing a silent question to her brother. Oliver only throws her a warning glance, lowering his hood. He removes his mask, placing it on the metal gurney.

Ignoring them, Felicity moves to shrug off her jacket, but Oliver moves faster. He stills her hands with his own on her shoulders. "Here, let me," is all he says, helping her out of her coat.

"Taking my coat?" she asks, surprise coloring her tone. "I don't think anyone has offered to do that in sixty years." The words startle Oliver a little; while he's been trying to figure out how old she is since the moment they met, the statement makes him realize just how long she's been in the world.

Truthfully, Oliver has never offered to take a woman's coat before. It isn't an old remnant of etiquette lessons, nor is it something he'd _think_ to do for anyone else. It might be old airs that were bred out of society generations ago, but she presents herself as a lady. Something about Felicity exudes poise and grace, whether she's babbling at him or tossing out innuendo. And it's that nameless quality that makes him want to act like a gentleman.

"I think you're long overdue, then," is all he answers, draping it across the gurney. Carefully, he removes his bloodied gloves, setting them next to the mask.

When he turns back, he has to smile at Felicity's choice of attire. She isn't just in blue slacks, but a navy three-piece suit, complete with a pocket square and a silver rose lapel pin. The shirt under her vest is an indigo, checkered pattern with a solid white collar, paired with a burgundy tie. Both modern and traditional, unique and classic—not unlike the contradiction she presents herself.

Trying not to roll his eyes, Oliver says to his seemingly disinterested sister, "Thea, we both heard you on the stairs." She gives up the charade, rounding the desk. "This is Felicity Smoak, a friend of mine." His sister's eyes widen at the name, then immediately shoot to the bandage on his neck. "Felicity, this is my sister, Thea."

Thea, to her credit, immediately extends her hand. "Nice to meet you," she says. A second later, her eyes widen and she pulls off the two rings on her fingers and shoves them into her pocket. "Sorry, I forgot—silver rings." She extends her hand again.

"A pleasure, Miss Queen," Felicity offers with a small, sincere smile. Thea mouths _Miss Queen_ , to Oliver and he shrugs. It's what Felicity does. She turns around the space. "I half expected Mr. Diggle to be with you, as well."

"He's with his nephew tonight," Oliver explains.

"So you're the reason Ollie has been hunting all those anti-vamp idiots," is his sister's conclusion.

"Thea," he warns.

"I can't speak to Oliver's motives, but he has been kind enough to investigate, yes," Felicity allows after a moment. She turns to him, twirling an index finger. "Let me help you with those wounds."

Though he unzips the jacket, Oliver frowns. "What about you?" he asks. "The last time you did this, it was difficult for you." He drops into a nearby chair, stripping off his jacket and shirt. The blonde's eyes roam his torso like they did two nights ago, but this time she runs her tongue across her bottom lip.

"Did what, exactly?" Thea asks, crossing her arms over her chest. A moment later, she motions around the room. "Should I leave? Because it kind of seems like you two are about to get your freak on, and I don't want to be here for that."

Oliver winces, but Felicity only laughs. "If I was interested in screwing around, I have a _much_ more suitable place for a private tryst," she answers with a roll of her eyes. Oliver finds something fascinating about his boots; his mind goes immediately to her apartment under the club. Shaking her head, she clarifies, "I'm a witch, so I can heal injuries. It just takes a toll on me to do so." She glances down at him. "And you're in no fit condition to be a donor." She removes her suit coat, walking over to drape it across the gurney. Unbuttoning the cuffs on her shirt, she starts rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. "So I suppose I'll have to make do without."

Glancing down, Oliver's eyes are immediately drawn to the red, mottled scar on the outside of her right forearm. Even healed, it makes him clench his jaw. If not for the flame-retardant drapes, he could have lost her that night, right in front of his eyes. Someone did this out of malice, with the intent of genocide. Someone hated vampires so badly that they were willing to kill hundreds of innocents to eradicate them.

In some ways, Felicity is a better survivor than he is.

"Or you could use me," Thea interjects, waving a hand with a wide smile. Oliver can't help but frown; he thought she wasn't interested in getting high anymore. "I mean, I've always wanted to try a Vampire's Kiss anyway, and Felicity needs blood, right? I could help out."

"No," Oliver growls.

The vampire turns to his sister. "Since I have an expert in the room, I have to ask: Is he always this overprotective?"

Thea crosses her arms, grinning. Even as Oliver glares at the both of them, dread sinks into the pit of his stomach. He does _not_ need the two of them to become friends—both of them delight in causing trouble for him as it is. Felicity's eyes flicker over him again. Two very _different_ kinds of trouble, but enough to make him nervous. "He tries to tell you what to do, too?" Thea asks.

Felicity nods once. "The operative word being _try_ ," she clarifies, "but he isn't very successful." The two of them share a smile, and Oliver is certain some of his worst nightmares started like this. "He tried to usher me out at the club, so I ignored him." She motions to the scar on her right arm. "Of course, that's how I earned this, as well," she adds, "but it's important to make one's own choices." She places a hand on Oliver's shoulder, but turns back to Thea. "I was born into a world where women didn't always have such luxuries. It's a gift."

Absently, she runs a finger over the cut on his arm, muttering words in a language that means nothing to him. Oliver grits his teeth against a sudden surge of pain, but by the time she finishes, it looks as though it was never there.

His sister asks the same question that's been on his mind: "How old _are_ you?"

Smiling, Felicity only replies, "Older than the invention of the computer, but younger than the steam engine." Thea attempts to pout—a trick that has always worked well on Oliver—but her powers are useless on Felicity. The vampire only motions to his sister's black sweater. "I'll need your arm to feed, Miss Queen, and I'd hate to ruin a Saint Laurent."

The brunette is gone in an instant. "Ollie, you better have another shirt lying around!" she declares, disappearing behind one of the dark curtains in search of one.

Smiling, the blonde vampire circles the gunshot wound in his shoulder. "Did you remove the bullet?" she asks. When he nods, she presses her index finger to the injury. It heals over in a few seconds. Felicity studies the blood on her hand for a few heartbeats, and then she slips her finger into her mouth.

Brow furrowing, Oliver asks with a smile, "Did you just…?"

Unrepentant, Felicity only shrugs. "You weren't using it," she replies in a defensive tone. She flashes her fangs when she smiles, contrasting with her deep red lips. "Waste not, want not, Mr. Queen."

He holds his right hand up in a challenge, index finger and inside of his hand covered with still-wet blood. "I'm not using this, either," he comments.

When it happens, Oliver thinks he should have known better. Felicity's eyes flash with a wicked glint, and then she snaps up his hand, popping his finger in her mouth. She meets his eyes as she rolls her tongue around it, eyes flashing crimson.

Oliver stops breathing.

She releases his index finger a moment later, placing her mouth to the side of his hand in several places. Slowly she works her way up his hand, licking and sucking away the blood remnants. Felicity takes her time at the slice on his wrist, sucking at the wound until no trace of blood is left.

Her eyes never leave his, and suddenly the room is too hot. She's playing with him—as a cat would with a mouse. While Oliver knows that, he doesn't really care. All he can think of at the moment is how much he'd like to see her suit on the floor and how parts of his arrow gear are tight that weren't before.

As she finishes, she slides a finger along his wrist, sealing the wound as she licks the blood from her lips. "That's not very nice, Miss Smoak," he says in a rough, gravelly voice.

In response, she only smiles, eyes going blue again. "I'm not a very nice lady." Perhaps not, but he can't deny that she's a lady all the same. Felicity glances over to the first wound she healed, touching the tacky blood still left there. "I suppose I should take care of this, too."

As she leans down, Oliver stops her with a hand on her shoulder. The last thing he needs right now is to have her mouth on his skin again. "If you do that again," he warns in a low voice, "it will be a repeat performance of the other night." Her eyes go red again at the memory. "Except this time I won't be asking to stop." After a moment, he confesses, "And I wouldn't want to lose you as a friend."

He doesn't expect her to understand. Words have never been Oliver's strong suit, and he can't make sense of his own thoughts. Nor does he expect her to snort at his words. "You make it sound like I'd lock you away in my boudoir," she replies with a roll of her eyes. A smirk lights up her face a moment later. "While that _is_ a delicious thought, I wouldn't want to lose our friendship, either." She winks before quoting, "'Words are easy, like the wind; faithful friends are hard to find.' Especially _human_ ones, Oliver."

He has to break away from the vulnerability of her words. Rising from his seat, he reaches for his gray hoodie only a few feet away. After pulling it on, he turns back to find her in the chair he just occupied, dark circles under her eyes. He's forgotten what a toll this takes on her system, with all of her taunting.

"Losing you as a friend would be foolish," Felicity continues in a cautious tone, "but so would denying that there's some sort of attraction between the two of us." She holds a hand in the air as if presenting an offer. "I see no reason why we couldn't indulge both, if you were so inclined."

Oliver opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. The blonde simply dismisses the thought with a wave of red fingernails. "It isn't a decision you have to make right now," she assures him. "In fact, I'd rather you thought about it first. There would be some general ground rules, of course." She waves a hand, twisting in her seat. Somehow Oliver thinks that if she could, she'd be blushing. "And some concerns. I'd like to talk about that with you before we jump into anything. Which I suppose takes some of the fun out of it, but that—"

He's seen her do this twice before. "Felicity," he calls gently.

She chuckles, though she looks away. "I hate it when I do that," she declares.

"I don't," Oliver replies. Felicity's eyes snap to his, and they share a smile.

Resolving his courage, he takes her hand in his. There's one indulgence he's wanted since the moment they met, and somehow the action seems right. Lifting her hand, Oliver brushes his lips against her knuckles. Felicity's mouth parts in surprise, though her eyes flash violet as they meet his. Finally, he releases her. "Thank you." There are so many things to thank her for that he can't quite put a name to it. He trusts her to interpret it however she needs.

"Any time," she promises with a dangerous smile. "I'm always glad for a taste of you."


End file.
